


Information Technology Department (harrison wells speaking)

by preussisch_blau



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Information Technology, Customer Service & Tech Support, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I don't know what I'm doing with my life, Imagined Acts of Violence, Which Explains a Lot, these are my choices, this is my life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-16 20:47:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5840440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/preussisch_blau/pseuds/preussisch_blau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patience is an extremely finite and limited resource for campus I.T. technician Harrison Wells.</p>
<p>Professor Thawne is the lucky caller when Harrison finally runs out.</p>
<p>(OR: The tech support AU that exactly one person asked for.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Information Technology Department (harrison wells speaking)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jujubiest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jujubiest/gifts).



> Blame jujubiest for this. Blame her for all of this. There I was, innocently working on my ongoing fics, when she had to post a scenario. Just. Had. To.
> 
> And then she _encouraged_ me.
> 
> Apologies if I messed anything up about the level of technology, but I wasn't born until 198 **9** and this takes place in 198 **3**.

Harrison carded his hands through his hair, until he reached the back of his head, where he just grasped the long strands and tugged in frustration. For what felt like the hundredth time that _day,_ he questioned his life and his choices that had led to him taking a job in the campus I.T. department to help fund his studies. Surely, _surely,_ a less frustrating job existed.

Sleep deprivation study subject. Cereal sogginess evaluator. Professional earplug tester - in a crowded airplane full of drunks, arguing couples, and screaming infants; on a flight across the Pacific Ocean. Lego quality control - specifically: ensuring they caused the maximum amount of pain when stepped on bare footed at 2 in the morning.

He sighed and finished typing up the report for the last call he had received. Honestly, he'd have _thought_ that maybe a _maths_ professor would have had some understanding that when he said to click, he meant _left click,_ especially after being specifically instructed to do so unless told otherwise, but. No. That had been his problem. He'd been thinking, in a job that really required him to turn his brain off and try to function at the lowest common denominator of human ability.

He took note of that teacher's name, if only because he was _never_ taking a class with a person who was unable to follow simple instructions that had been repeated multiple times.

It was a wonder this Professor Jones was capable of doing more than sitting there breathing, never mind actually being able to dial a phone.

Harrison saved the report -which was probably going to earn him another talk from his supervisor- just as the obnoxious ring of his phone cut into his thoughts.

He'd only been here an hour, and was already praying to whatever deity that cared to listen to a man who didn't believe in any of them that it wasn't going to be another one of those days.

> _Never telling anyone to right click again. If solving their problem involves right clicking, I will fix it in person. Will not spend another phone call being asked if I mean right or left click every time I tell the caller to click something, when I have told them no less than TEN times that they are to left click until otherwise instructed._

* * *

It was probably going to be another one of those days.

The sixth call that day, he hadn't even been sure _how_ to log, it had been so strange. He also wasn't sure if the helpless laughter that had bubbled up from his throat the second the woman had hung up was because of how off-the-wall the call had been, or because his last tenuous grasp on sanity had finally slipped away from him in the wake of being _asked what the phone number for tech support had been._

He _was_ tech support, she'd known he was tech support because it was part of his required greeting to state what department he was in, she had to _dial that number to even talk to him._

Further research had at least illuminated the reason behind such a stupid call; apparently the main number for campus informational services ended in 2525, whereas theirs was 5252.

Harrison almost felt guilty for how he'd answered her question when he discovered that. Almost.

> _Caller asked for the I.T. department phone number. How is this woman allowed to teach?_

> _ETA 1034 09/13/83: Prior question retracted. New question: What genius decided that the Information Technologies number should be 555-222-5252 when the Informational Services desk is 555-222-2525? Am beginning to understand why some callers insist they've called us multiple times about their issue when we have no record of such calls._

* * *

Sending himself out to replace a lightbulb on a projector, instead of one of his two coworkers, had really been the highlight of his day thus far, and that was perhaps a little sad. Harrison stared longingly at his physics textbook, and not so much because he wanted to study, because he _was_ studying. That had been the entire reason he'd taken a job like this instead of something significantly easier, like waiting tables. So he had more time to study.

No, it was because he wanted to be studying anywhere but _here,_ where at any moment he'd be confronted yet again with the fact that some people ought not to walk and chew gum simultaneously, never mind attempt to use any technology more advanced than paper and pencil, yet somehow were considered acceptable and sometimes even _respected_ members of one of the top academic institutions in the country.

Harrison most certainly did not _whimper,_ however, when he heard the all too familiar _brrrrrrrring_ of the phone.

"Information Technology Department, Harrison Wells speaking. May I ask who's calling?" he rattled off as soon as he answered the phone.

"Oh, sorry, I was trying to reach tech support."

He resisted the urge to introduce his forehead to his keyboard as he forced a smile to his face and quickly replied before the caller hung up. "Ma'am, _ma'am,_ this is tech support, how can I help you?"

"Really? Well, you know, you really should say that when you answer the phone! I thought I reached the help desk! Why would you even say Information Department?!"

The only thing that kept the grin on his face through her ever loudening tirade was the mental image of strangling her with her own phone cord. Which was probably why he was the only student worker in the department who was allowed to use the office; apparently some of his peers had gotten a little too unsettled his first week. Harrison wasn't going to complain, though, even if he felt it was a little silly that a _smile_ had been that upsetting.

"I understand completely, ma'am. I'll pass your input along to my supervisor. Is there anything I can help you with?" he asked as he idly spun his chair from side to side.

"You do that!" the woman grumped. "And then you can get me a computer so I can type in Russian but have it print in English."

Harrison closed his eyes, leaned his head back until it rested on the back of his chair, and imagined stretching the cord out until it was straight, bringing it around the throat of some generically ugly woman, and letting it use its own tension to choke her once he tied the ends together. "I'm sorry, miss-"

"That's _Professor_ Kalininsky to you, boy," she interrupted with an annoyingly condescending huff.

"Apologies, Professor. However, we do not have Russian keyboards." And what she was asking for was impossible anyways. The idea of a computer being able to intelligibly translate between languages seemed like an impossible pipe dream. The only way she was getting her wish to type in Russian but have it print out in English was if she paid someone to translate her words to English before printing them.

"What? That's inexcusable! Ugh, fine, can you at least come down here and tape Cyrillic letters on the keys?"

A muscle in his cheek twitched involuntarily as he strained to keep the smile on his face and in his voice. "Ma'am, it will still be an English language keyboard. Labelling the keys differently will not affect how the computer sees it."

"What if you got me a bunch of keys with the right letters on them and swapped them out?"

Harrison picked up his pen and clicked the cap on and off a few times to try to vent some of his frustration. "It'll still be in English, professor."

"I thought you said you could help me!? You're absolutely useless! How did an idiot like you get accepted to this school? I'll have your job!"

Her barrage of insults continued in a similar vein for what felt like an eternity. He was almost able to see the little bird that flew to Svithjod make its millenial trip twice before she finally cut herself off with an incoherent screech and slammed her phone down on the hook.

> _Professor Kalininsky (sp?) incapable of understanding basic facts, such as the basic fact that an English-language keyboard cannot be turned into a Russian-language keyboard by taping different symbols on the keys. Unable to resolve problem, as she proceeded to insult my intelligence in tremendously unimaginative ways, before shrieking into the phone and hanging up._

* * *

It had been one of those days.

Thankfully, in just five minutes, he was free to leave until Thursday. An entire day of blissful freedom, interrupted only by classes and labwork. Hopefully. So long as Dr Stepanopoulos didn't have issues with his computer again. It had been one of the worse days this year, the day his Calculus II professor had discovered he worked for the I.T. department. He was not taking that class to be free tech support, and not even for a school computer, but for the one that man had _at home._ How he was even supposed to fix a machine he couldn't even go lay eyes on was beyond him, yet somehow he managed to the first time he'd been asked.

Which had been a problem, because of _course_ it was his fault the next time something broke, and of _course_ he'd still been expected to miraculously divine what was wrong with the computer from almost 25 miles away again. Harrison dreamed of the day when it would be possible to quickly and easily access another computer through network connections, when every computer would have the capability to be connected to any other computer on the planet. Until then, he had to waste half the damn class time trying to figure out the right questions to ask and-

Four more minutes.

He pushed all worries about Wednesday out of his mind, because he was not going to borrow any more trouble until he was certain he was free from the circle of Hell he was _presently_ trapped in.

He'd had to explain to another student that his computer had not somehow been broken into and had some words switched out with foul language, that the font really was named Arial. With an R and an I, not an N. Even then, the idiot hadn't quite believed him, had argued about how he was in league with Satan and trying to corrupt him or something, until Harrison had finally gotten fed up and told him to look up the word "kerning" and have a _blessed_ day.

If that was the call they checked for quality control purposes, he was probably getting fired come his next review.

He hoped so.

Three more minutes.

The phone rang.

"Fuck me with a spoon…" he muttered, before picking up the handset. "Harrison Wells, I.T. Department. May I ask who's calling?"

The voice on the other end of the line breathed a quiet, "Thank _God,_ someone's there," before speaking up, in the kind of way that suggested he hadn't thought Harrison was able to hear that whisper and needed to be almost shouted at to hear him now. He slid the earpiece forwards so it rested on his cheekbone before the man finished the first word he spoke, because he did not relish the prospect of going deaf at a young age. "Professor Eobard Thawne, and-"

"I'm sorry, what?" he interrupted without even thinking. There was no way he'd heard that name correctly, and he begrudgingly pushed the phone back onto his ear to listen again.

"E-o-bard Thawne," the man repeated, sounding about as irritated as Harrison felt. "It's really not that difficult."

"…Right, I'm still not quite understanding you, sir, could you spell that for me?"

"Oh for the… It's spelled exactly how it sounds! E. O. B. A. R. D." A dull, fleshy thwack echoed into the connection. The man must have smacked something. Harrison's only thought was that it was a shame it hadn't been the phone receiver, because if the man had hung up, he was _not_ answering if he called back.

He typed that dutifully into his notes, before he continued the call. "Alright, Professor Thorn-"

" _Thawne._ " The word was ground out in a tone that would have made condescension leak from his headset had a tone been a physical object, and Harrison was already fed up with this stupid man and his stupid name and likely equally more stupid problem.

"Professor _Thawne,_ then," he replied with an equal amount of disdain. "Can I help you?"

"Oh, I doubt it, but maybe you can at least make this… formless, barely functional piece of junk _work!_ "

Harrison felt the headache forming between his eyes, and slid his glasses off his face to massage the bridge of his nose. Oh no, not one of these calls. "Sir, is your computer plugged in?"

"…What kind of stupid question is that? Of course it's plugged in! Do I sound like the kind of idiot who wouldn't make sure a _computer_ had a _power source?_ " Thawne sounded mortally offended.

"You don't want me to answer that," he replied. "Now, is yo-"

" _Yes,_ " Thawne cut in acidly, "It is powered on. Can we skip the idiot checks, because I assure you, I'm a genius where I come from. And that makes me easily the smartest person here."

"Really?" Harrison asked with sarcastic disbelief. "Because from where I'm sitting, you're too stupid to tell me exactly what the problem is."

"It won't enter the numbers I type. Really, this would be so much simpler if this barbaric era would hurry up and create voice command technology."

He blinked in confusion, because that thought seemed very oddly phrased, but he shook it off. "Right, just press the number lock key."

"Number lock?"

"Says Num Lock, right side of keyboard, above the 7," he rattled off as he stared down at his own keyboard.

"…I don't see it," Thawne muttered, audibly perplexed.

"It's on the right side of the keyboard. Right by the 7. On the number keypad."

"Still not seeing it."

" _Right. Side. Of. The. Keyboard._ " he ground out through clenched teeth. 

"No need to get testy, Harrison," Thawne said with clearly forced joviality. "By the way, that's a ridiculous name, don't you think?"

"No more ridiculous than Yobar-"

" _Eo_ bard."

"Whatever," he snapped. 

"Which is a-"

"Now, focus."

"Very dis-"

On the keyboard-"

"-tinguished name." Thawne raised his voice even louder after that, and finally cut Harrison off. " _Also,_ I don't see anything like what you're describing."

Harrison looked down at the nib of his pen and momentarily wondered if he ought to drive it through his own eardrum to end his suffering, or hunt this Thawne down and bury it in his larynx instead. "You're looking at your keyboard, right? Not the screen?"

"Yes, yes, of course, and I'm not seeing a 7 anywhere."

"It's _right there!_ " he cried desperately. "On the right side of your keyboard! The thing you type on how do you not see it!"

Harrison thought he caught a soft "Oh" of realisation, a barely audible, "So that's what that's called."

He doubted this man's claims of genius.

"Alright, so, the… keyboard. You want me to press the 7 key?"

Harrison smacked his palm against his forehead. "Noooo. The Num Lock key. Above the 7."

There was a long pause. Too long. Harrison felt the seconds crawl by at a snail's pace.

"I don't see that, I'm sorry."

"Well then put on a pair of glasses or something because it should be right in front of you," he snapped.

"Is there someone more competent I can speak to?"

" _Excuse_ me?"

"You heard me."

"Tell you what," Harrison said, forcing every bit of saccharine sweetness he could muster into his tone, "I'll go get a more competent tech if _you_ get a more competent computer user!"

He slammed the handset down with all the violent force he could muster, then swiped his arm across the desk, knocking his notes for his chemistry lab onto the floor. Of all the arrogant, condescending, idiotic _pricks_ …

Harrison took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, forcing his jaw to relax before he ground his molars to dust.

He gathered up his things and shoved them haphazardly into his bag, which knocked over the copy of the school directory that had somehow remained precariously balanced on the edge of his desk after his small fit of rage. He glared at the thick binder as he picked it up and all but slammed it down.

Eobard Thawne, hm?

* * *

He had no idea what he was even doing, but he'd been possessed to drag himself down to this end of campus after he'd checked to see what Thawne taught. Solely so he never took a class taught by that man either, although as it turned out, he need not have worried. Thawne taught history, which had never been Harrison's favourite subject. Add in the fact that he didn't necessarily need _history_ credits for his degree, and he never would have taken a class with the man anyways.

Yet here he was, stalking down the old building that housed the history and philosophy departments, glancing at nameplates on doors as he tried to find Thawne's office.

A blond man exited a room at the end of the hall and turned around to lock the door behind him. Well, maybe something was finally going to go right for Harrison today.

"Excuse me," he called out.

The man looked up, hand still as he held the key in the lock. "Can I help you?"

That voice sounded vaguely familiar. Harrison came closer before he spoke again, not wanting to continue yelling just in case classes were in session anywhere nearby. Had nothing to do with wanting to get a better look at the man's face or anything. 

Well, maybe a _little_ to do with that. He _was_ human, after all, and a handsome face was a welcome distraction after the day he'd had. "I'm looking for Professor Thawne."

"Well, well, well," the man said with a somewhat cheeky grin, "Aren't you in luck?"

Wait.

He knew that voice.

_Oh fuck me running._

"Take off," Thawne replied, his grin only growing wider as he turned his head slightly.

Harrison sputtered -he hadn't said that aloud, had he? except he definitely had, of _course_ he had- and turned a very mortified red. He cleared his throat and tried to ignore the suggestiveness inherent in those words, despite the airy tone they had been delivered in.

"Are you going to stand there blushing like a schoolgirl all day, Harrison, or are you going to fix my computer?"

"How did you-"

Thawne raised his eyebrows and shrugged slightly. "I remember important faces," he said, which was an annoyingly cryptic statement that made absolutely no sense as an answer to the question he had been about to ask.

"…Whatever. Just… show me the damn computer."

* * *

The keyboard had not even been plugged in.

The _keyboard_ had _not_ even been _plugged in._

Harrison had stared in open mouthed shock for a few seconds before he put the plug into the port on the back of the computer. "You call yourself a genius and you can't even make sure your keyboard is _connected?!_ "

Thawne just looked entirely too puzzled and perplexed for him to handle and he really wanted to smack the man for it. How on Earth was this a novel concept? How?!

"It's not wireless?" the man muttered low enough that Harrison was fairly certain the words had not been meant for his ears, but he heard it anyways and was compelled to respond.

"No, it isn't, and I'm not entirely sure _why_ you would even think that is _possible_ at this point in time," Harrison hissed. He slammed his hand down on the desk and pushed away from it. "We can't even get a computer to talk to another one wired to the same set of phone lines without having to manually input where it needs to look, how would we possibly get a keyboard to talk to a computer if we couldn't tell the computer where to find it?"

Which was really a gross oversimplification of the difficulties involved in wireless _anything_ , in Harrison's opinion, but he was thoroughly convinced by this point that this man was a complete dumbass and needed things explained at the level of a kindergartener.

"But television and radio-"

"Work on an entirely different principle!"

"You'd be surprised. It's all radio bands in the end. I can't believe no one's figured that out yet." Thawne sounded entirely too amused, in that tolerant sounding way that suggested he thought Harrison was a complete idiot.

He _really_ wanted to wipe that smugness out of Thawne's tone, but if he did that, he was likely to end up unceremoniously expelled from college and also possibly in jail for assault and/or battery.

"Can you do me a favour?"

"Hm?" Thawne raised his eyebrows slightly, turned and tilted his head just enough that he was no longer looking at him dead on.

"Just shut up."

* * *

_Harrison Wells had stormed out of the room, clearly frustrated, and Eobard thought it was actually somewhat funny when the boy yanked the door shut behind him so hard that instead of closing, it bounced back open from the latch hitting the frame._

_He went over and shut the door properly, before he reached into his pocket and pulled out the device that fit neatly over his palm._

_"Gideon, locate information on Dr Harrison Wells."_

_"Yes, Professor Thawne."_

_He wasn't going to get_ everything, _he only had access to what was stored in Gideon's memory banks, after all. (And it really was fascinating, how when the timeline changed, corresponding information changed. He would have thought that the information already saved in its banks was as unchanging as his own memories, but there you had it.)_

_He read quickly over the information that came up, mostly news articles about S.T.A.R. Labs, about the man who ruined Central City. Yes, that was what he had thought, there was the source of the particle accelerator explosion that had created the Flash and other meta-humans. He'd wondered how that had occurred, how a man clever enough to invent so many other wonderful technologies -some of which had gone into the very A.I. he was using at the moment- had not only failed so spectacularly with what had been his longest project, but also had not managed to sway public opinion fully back to his favour._

_Having finally met Harrison Wells -an unexpected delight, truly- he found that he understood quite well._

_Idly, Eobard asked Gideon to show the usual articles about the Flash. They hadn't changed in the least, not since he'd last asked about them almost two months ago when he'd found himself accidentally stuck in this terrible, backwater time period. But now he looked at them and wondered if, instead of biding his time until Jay Garrick was struck by lightning, perhaps there wasn't room for some improvement in this part of the timeline as well._


End file.
